


Forget-Me-Nots

by Little_Lotte



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dragon Age: Inquisition Spoilers, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-20
Updated: 2015-12-23
Packaged: 2018-05-02 12:09:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5247770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Lotte/pseuds/Little_Lotte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Is it fate or chance? Curiosity has been known to open dangerous doors, and sometimes it might be wiser to let sleeping wolves lie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Forget-Me-Nots

_We tell beginnings: for the flesh and the answer, Or the look, the lake in the eye that knows, For the despair that flows down in widest rivers, Cloud of home; and also the green tree of grace, All in the leaf, in the love that gives us ourselves. -Muriel Rukeyser_

The first time she saw him, he was sleeping.

She had been working late, as she usually did. Having a job as an intern for the already underfunded Museum of Art and History in Gwaren meant getting handed all the grunt work no one else was even remotely interested in dealing with. So, there she was, single-handedly hauling a rather buxom bust of Andraste from the Exalted age down into storage at ten o’clock on a Friday night. Truly, she led a charmed life.

Like everywhere else in the museum, the storage area was cramped and musty, falling into slight disrepair. The narrow shelves were crammed full of broken and poorly labeled artifacts that other more prominent museums in Ferelden had deemed unworthy of display.

Doctor Asignon had thrown her down here to deal with the sudden influx of pieces they had recently acquired from Qarinus last month, and she had been slouched over the tiny green desk they had shoved into one corner of the room for her, trying to date shards of pottery and squinting at squiggly Elvhen writing ever since.

She plopped the busty bust down on her desk with a groan, sending a flurry of paperwork fluttering to the floor. She surveyed the ruins of her workspace with a grating sigh, slumping down in the spindly wooden chair wedged behind her desk and letting her forehead fall forward onto the cool metal surface.

“Living the dream,” she reminded herself. “Most elves would give their left hand for this sort of opportunity.”

It was true, an elf who even managed to scrape enough coin together to make into a university was rare enough, the fact that someone had seen her obviously Dalish surname and decided to hand her a scholarship was a minor miracle. Landing any sort of job in her field was a blessing, even if it largely required her to make coffee for the higher ups and keep everyone else’s workspaces organized to the best of her abilities.

Never mind that she was brilliant, or that she probably knew three times as much about the Dragon Age than Doctor Asignon knew about how to zip up his own trousers. Or that she could read at least six ancient languages, including two dead ones. Or that she had graduated top of her class.

She was an elf. It was the reason the University of Denerim had shunted her off to a backwater like Gwaren in the first place. It was the reason she was an intern instead of one of their leading researchers. It was the reason everyone else had gone home four hours ago and she was still here lugging around statuary.

She sighed again, rubbing at her face with both hands and pushing back a few loose strands of pale blonde hair that had escaped her braid. There were only a few more pieces she needed to catalog before she could go home. Maybe her roommate had been nice enough to bring her home something from the diner she worked at, she would bloody someone for a bite of one of their apple tarts right about now.

She looked over at the large object leaning against the far wall covered in a long white sheet. She already knew what it was, even though the good doctor and his ilk had told her not to ‘fiddle’ with it. Repeatedly. As though the implications of “don’t touch this, knife-ear” would do anything but make her want to look at it even more. As if they could throw it down here in what had more or less become her office and think that she was _not_ going to look at it. Right.

It was ironic, given that it was one of the few truly Elvhen artifacts the museum had managed to procure, and they did not want _her_ to examine it because they wanted the research to be infallible. And clearly, as an elf, her opinion would be biased, and therefore without merit. She scoffed, walking over to the artifact and carefully removing its covering.

Her breath caught in her throat, just as it had the first time she had broken the rules to peek at it.

A mirror. Tall and gilded and, oddly enough, not reflecting her image even though she was standing directly in front of it. It was edged in what appeared to be silver, with etchings of elegant swirling plants and flowers climbing up along the frame as a pair of wolves sat howling mournfully on either side of the base.

“An eluvian,” she breathed aloud, still astonished that such a rare gem had ended up in Gwaren, of all places, being studied by an oaf like Doctor Asignon instead of someplace like the University of Orlais or Minrathous. A mystery for the ages.

Something thrummed within her chest. A tug. A longing. A quiet cry from the center of her being.

It had scared her when it had first happened, but she had been expecting it this time.

There was something about this mirror, something that belonged to her. She had no idea if the reaction would have been the same for any other elf, and she had no way of testing such a theory without smuggling one of her friends into areas of the museum that were off limits to anyone who was not personnel.

Perhaps it had something to do with the tales of elves’ inherent gift for magic?

She shook her head at the notion, elven mages had died out centuries ago as all the magic in Thedas had gradually dwindled and faded away. The only countries who even claimed to have magic users anymore were Tevinter and Rivain, and they were reclusive enough with their talents to make it little more than rumor. At any rate, she was no mage, there was no way for her to be sensing whatever sleeping magic the mirror might possess. …was there?

She glanced up at the letters carved into the top of mirror’s tarnished frame, studying the words in long looping Elvhen that Doctor Asignon had been fruitlessly attempting to translate for the last week.

Eluvians were meant to be doorways. Doors, especially very old magical ones, often required a key. The words must offer some sort of hint as to how the mirror could be unlocked, or possibly some clue as to where it might lead once opened.

The script was uncommonly complex and ornate, making it difficult to read. But she _could_ read it. That fact alone was enough to fill her with a rather smug sense of satisfaction as she thought of the team of four ‘more experienced’ humans who had been flailing over this interpretation for days. The passage may have been somewhat archaic, but it was also blessedly short, and it did not take her long to piece together a rough translation in her head.

Her eyes widened in disbelief when she finally realized what the mirror said. Awed and a little afraid, she reached up and placed her hand over her left collarbone with a distinct air of wonder, remembering the words she had gotten tattooed there in a dark plum colored ink during a night of heavy drinking and poor life choices when she had first entered college. And now those very words hung before her, echoed in ancient discolored silver.

She had the distinct sensation of a ghost breathing at the nape of her neck, sending shivers skittering down her spine and setting all her nerves along the edge of a knife. Her heart thundered in her ears. Her lungs tightened about the panicked organ stuttering between them, as though trying to keep it safely within the cavern of her chest. Before she could think better of it, she whispered the phrase aloud.

“ _Var lath vir suledin_.”

The mirror erupted in a blaze of blue white light, sending her staggering back into her desk, knocking Andraste to the floor with a sickening crunch that told her she was most likely going to be in a world of trouble when her boss came in on Monday morning.

That is, if he managed not to piss himself at the sight of an active elvuian.

For half a second she actually considered calling someone. Someone with the ‘proper’ sort of authority to deal with ancient magical doorways that could lead literally anywhere, including places that were not technically part of Thedas. Places that could be full of fire and dragons and booby-traps. Perhaps she should call someone who owned a gun. Or very large muscles. Or possibly both. Both seemed like the safest option.

She shook her head vehemently. If she was going to see what was on the other side of that mirror, it had to be now, before someone ‘more important’ decided to swoop in and steal all the credit for unlocking it for themselves and shove her back into the obscurity of Cataloging Hell. She may not get her name in any of the research magazines, but she was bloody well at least going to take the chance to explore one of the few remaining wonders of her people first hand.

Besides, she was probably fired for busting up Andraste’s face already, she may as well break a few more rules while she was at it, right?

Ever so slowly, she crept back towards the glowing mirror, still wary that something, or possibly even someone, might jump out of it at any moment. Most of the eluvians that led to places of any significance had been destroyed shortly after the Inquisitor’s war with the insane elf who had taken up the mantle of Fen’Harel, but it was probably best to be cautious anyway. With her luck, it probably led to some ancient elven broom cupboard.

When she finally reached the faintly rippling sheen of the eluvian’s surface, she took a deep calming breath through her nose, clenched her teeth, and reached her hand into the mirror.

The magic tingled over her skin like thousands of tiny ice crystals as her hand passed through it to wherever the door had connected to, making the skin along her forearm burst out in goosebumps. It tickled, but other than that her hand seemed no worse for wear, all digits still accounted for as far as she could tell. The impossibly familiar hum of the magic binding the mirror was by far the most unnerving thing about the experience thus far.

“This is, without a doubt, the weirdest thing that has ever happened to me,” she informed the broken bust of Andraste with a nervous chuckle, her emotions still swinging back and forth on a pendulum between paralyzing trepidation and a gnawing curiosity. In the end though, she knew she would spend the rest of her days kicking herself if she passed up the chance to see what lay beyond that mirror with her own two eyes.

“For science!” She muttered under her breath with a dry attempt at humor and a lot more bravery than she actually felt before doing her best to shake off the remnants of her unease, squaring her shoulders, and following her hand through the eluvian.

The first thing she noticed was the sunlight. At least, she thought it must be sunlight, or magic that was meant to mimic sunlight at any rate. The sky was a cloudless blue bowl above her head, the entire landscape surrounding her edged with jagged peaks of white capped mountains. The second thing she noticed was the cold.

The eluvian had deposited her into the courtyard of a somewhat decrepit castle nestled in deep within an unfamiliar mountain range. The air was thin and crisp, and much cooler than the sea breezes of Gwaren at the start of Kingsway. She hugged herself tightly, rubbing her hands along the sleeves of her flannel button-down. Trying to be careful and attempting to soak in as much of her surroundings as possible, she slowly began sloshing her way towards the main keep through patches of muddy snow, grimacing as it melted and began seeping through the material of her sneakers and into her socks.

The white banners fluttering gently on either side of the L shaped staircase leading up to the massive wooden double doors to the stronghold were unfamiliar, though undoubtedly Elvhen, but the heraldry hanging from the walls was…Dalish? When had the Dalish inhabited a mountain fortress? Most of the architecture was of blatantly human design, though traces of Elvhen craft bled through in certain places, but those elements were much older than anything the Dalish could have built.

Mysteries upon mysteries.The great hall was the same hodgepodge of imagery, towering Fereldan mabari standing guard along walls decorated with early Tevinter mosaics, Orlesian-made curtains and stained glass which both depicted even more Dalish symbols, and a truly ancient statue of Falon’din’s great owl swooping down from above the main doors.

What _was_ this place?

Stranger and more disconcerting still was the sensation that the inhabitants had never truly left. There were places set at the tables that lined both sides of the hall, as though expecting company at any moment, and warm fires lit the braziers along the walls and crackled pleasantly in the hearth near the main door. More than that, the place simply seemed…full. There was a lingering presence here she could not dismiss, as though someone had just walked out of the room. She kept turning her head, looking for someone, waiting for the sounds of distant laughter, footsteps on stone, the scraping sound of a chair being moved across the floor, the ringing clash of swords and shields drifting in from the training yard.

But there was nothing there except silence.

Or was there?

Out of the corner of one eye, she saw something pale and fleeting dart into the first room on the right side of the hallway. She chased after it without a second thought, throwing back the door and charging into a round tower with three levels stacked on top of each other with little to no floor in between them. Staring up from the bottom, she could see all the way to the roof. Which seemed to be covered in…bird cages?

When it was clear her mysterious prey had vanished, she took a moment to look around the level she was standing in, and her heart sped up once more.

Paintings. A menagerie of captivating frescos in vivid hues filled every available inch of the curving walls surrounding her. Warriors and mages and pale maidens in long sweeping gowns. Dozens of eyes peering down from the sky, more howling wolves, and fire…an uncomfortable amount of fire. The bizarre sense of belonging crept back up her spine, twining itself around her and whispering against her ear like a lover. For an instant she thought she smelled fresh paint and old parchment with a faint hint of pine. Someone was meant to be here; she was sure of it.

A floorboard creaked on the second story.

“Who’s there?” She called out, trying to reign in her sudden swell of panic.

“Knock knock,” a soft voice replied, though she could not tell from where. “No, wait, that’s…wrong. Sorry. The knocking comes first doesn’t it? It’s been so long. Remembering is harder than I thought it’d be.”

“What is this place?” She tried again, still trying to find the source of the voice.

“Keeping, careful, quiet,” the voice answered, “I stayed because she asked, so he could remember the place he wanted to be. He just wanted to come home.”

“Who did?” She asked, throwing her arms up in frustration. She had a niggling suspicion she had heard the voice somewhere before, but she was willing to chalk it up to the general weirdness of this place. She was unsure just how far her ‘elfiness’ would carry as an excuse for everything here feeling so familiar, and she honestly did not want to stop and consider any other possible theories on that front for the time being. She could only handle so much creepy shit in one day.

The door beside her opened by itself, ushering her back out into the main hall. Against her better judgement, she followed, not nearly as perturbed by being unable to see the source of the soft pad of footfalls guiding her as she probably should have been. They led her to the far end of the room and through a door along the opposite wall without a word passing between them. There was a long winding flight of stairs up through a tower that seemed like it was more worn down than the rest of the castle, and yet another door, and even more stairs.

She was just about to call it quits when she arrived in a large airy room, beautifully furnished and flooded with light. Standing by the fireplace was a tall gangly youth, milky-skinned and human in appearance, if not by nature. He peered at her with pale watery blue eyes, wide and round and remorseful. He wore old patchy clothing which he picked at nervously and an odd floppy hat. He frowned at her silence, seeming disappointed.

“You don’t have to remember,” he said, his words colored with thinly veiled hurt as her looked away from her towards something at the far side of the room. “I hope I helped.”

And without another word, he vanished into thin air.

She gave a startled yelp, jumping back half a step and scanning the room for any clues to where he might have gotten to.

That was when she noticed the figure lying on the bed.

“Hello?” She called out softly as she inched her way towards the gilded Orlesian atrocity they were laid out on. The person was clearly male, if the sharp angles of his face and his distinct lack of hair meant anything. He was dressed in a simple beige sweater, and someone had lovingly pulled the covers up to his chest as though to guard him against the chill coming in from the large glass doors on the opposite wall that led out to a balcony which overlooked the rest of the keep. He appeared to be sleeping.

“Serah?” She tried once more as she drew nearer, hoping that she had not just stumbled onto a corpse. She paused, taking note of his long pointed ears. He was elven then, not human like the vanishing boy. It made sense. About as much sense as anything made in this place, anyway.

“Hahren?” She said instead, thinking that perhaps he might respond better to what was likely his native tongue. When there was still no reply, she carefully lowered herself to sit beside him on the bed. He had pale skin, highlighting the faint dusting of freckles across his nose and the elegant curve of his prominent cheekbones. His eyelashes were long and dark, his full lips pressed together in a firm line, his hands folded neatly over his stomach, all of him unmoving. If he was breathing, it was impossibly light.

He did not look dead, however. There was a touch of rose beneath those freckles, and a curious kind of softness hanging about him. He looked…serene. Ageless. And perhaps just the tiniest bit sad.

He was beautiful.

Her cheeks burned and shook her head, glancing away from him for a moment and frowning. How peculiar did you have to be to think some dusty old elf lying passed out in some sort of magically induced coma inside a crumbling castle that had been sealed behind a mirror for who knows how long was attractive? It hadn’t been _that_ long since she’d gone on a date.

Not quite able to look back at his face again, which was ridiculous seeing as the man was unconscious and hardly capable of judgement, her eyes settled somewhere around his chest. There was a blackened jawbone from some beast hanging from a pair of leather cords around his neck, and over that, a long chain of small lacey flowers, bright yellow coronas inside delicate blue stars.

‘Forget me not, oh love of mine,’ she remembered the poem about the flower’s name vaguely, reaching out and brushing her fingertips gingerly over a single tiny bloom. They looked as though someone had picked them only yesterday. ‘The sun that burns, the stars that shine. …how did the rest of it go?’

Someone had put him here on purpose, locked away in a castle all by himself. Someone who loved him.

She placed her hand on his shoulder, shaking him gently.

“Hey,” she said, her lips quirking it a slight smile, “I think you’re probably long past the regular amount of beauty sleep.”

This was like something out of one of those stories her mother had read her as a child. A princess put to sleep for a hundred years in the highest room of the tallest tower. She snorted at the comparison. At least she didn’t have to fight a dragon on the way up here.

There was nothing for it, he wasn’t waking up. She didn’t know if it was even possible _to_ wake him up. Maybe he was dead after all, and his body had simply been preserved by magic somehow, like the flowers around his neck. She didn’t know why, but the thought made her sad.

She was going to have to tell Dr. Asignon about this place, about him. They would poke and prod and run all sorts of invasive tests on him, trying to see what it would take to rouse him. If they thought he was beyond their reach, they could do worse, cut him up and study his remains in some perverse attempt to understand the magic that had kept him pristine for so long.

She frowned in dismay. He deserved more than that. Whoever he was, whatever he had done to be kept in this place, he was still worthy of some sort of dignity, of respect, and whatever kindness they could afford to show him. The person who had left the garland around his neck had clearly thought so.

She touched his face, gentle, consoling. He should have some sort of softness before the humans dragged him away.

“Ir abelas, Hahren,” she said with quiet earnestness. She bent down and pressed a kiss against his lips, brief and chaste. An apology and a goodbye. They most likely wouldn’t let her anywhere near him after this whole fiasco came to light, she’d be lucky if she even got to keep her job.

She jerked back in alarm. His lips were warm and soft, and _they had most definitely moved_.

She looked down at his face once more, and a pair of eyes as blue as the flowers around his neck gazed back at her.

She opened her mouth to scream, but it was swallowed up as his lips came to meet hers with a fiery desperation. His arms wrapped around her as he sat up more fully, dragging her as close as he could. He was broader than she had given him credit for, enveloping her smaller frame effortlessly in his warmth.

She was petrified, startled out of almost every ounce of sense she had, and for just a moment, utterly swept away.

“Vhenan,” he gasped into her shoulder when he finally stopped kissing her long enough to breathe. She could feel hot tears sliding down her neck into the collar of her shirt as he nuzzled against her, still clinging to her tightly. His heart was thundering in his chest, echoing her own. “ _Vhenan_.”


	2. Wolfs Bane

_But I will hold on hope_  
_And I won't let you choke_  
_On the noose around your neck_

 _And I'll find strength in pain_  
_And I will change my ways_  
_I'll know my name as it's called again_

 _So come out of your cave walking on your hands_  
_And see the world hanging upside down_  
_You can understand dependence_  
_When you know the maker's land_

_-Mumford & Sons_

 

She shoved herself away from him so hard that it sent her toppling off the side of the bed and onto the floor in a heap of flailing limbs. She sat there for a few moments, completely flabbergasted, covering her mouth with one hand as she glared up at him with equal parts embarrassment and indignation. He blinked back down at her, his expression groggy and disoriented, and perhaps just a trifle wounded.

“You…y-you…with _tongue_?!” She finally managed to sputter in protest. “Is this some ancient Elvhen greeting I’ve never heard about?”

“You are…upset. Of course you are,” he said thickly, obviously struggling to collect himself as he went about extricating himself from the sheets still draped across his legs. “I apologize. It was presumptuous of me to assume that you-”

He made a move to stand and ended up promptly collapsing heavily to his knees on the floor beside her instead, just barely managing to catch himself with his hands. He muttered something darkly under his breath that sounded like it was probably a curse, his frustration with his condition bleeding through his otherwise prim demeanor. He pushed himself back up into a sitting position with a groan, burying his face in his hands.

“Forgive me,” he rasped out hoarsely, shaking his head slightly as though to clear it. “I fear I am…not at my best at present.”

“What? Are you going to tell me you usually buy a girl flowers before you start kissing her senseless?” She snapped, her cheeks burning. Her general sense of mortification was really chipping away at the shiny prospect of having discovered a living breathing relic who was apparently capable of at least speaking some form of the trade tongue and therefore a potential goldmine in terms of historical relevance. She should have been over the moon, but all she could focus on was his mouth.

His perfectly gorgeous mouth which was so handsomely situated in the bottom third of his perfectly gorgeous face. The one with the full lips that she knew first hand were plush and passionate and apparently willing to shower her with affection. That mouth right there. The one he had kissed her with.

Andraste’s lacey granny panties, this situation was jumping from weird to pathetic at the speed of light.

She had been kissed before. By perfectly nice men with perfectly nice lips who weren’t insanely old elves just waking up from some sort of magic coma. _Really_.

His brow furrowed in consternation at her words, his expression puckering briefly into a disappointed frown before he seemed to realize something. One corner of his lips quirked upwards as his eyes found hers, a flash of mischief gleaming in their stormy depths. It was far too attractive to be allowed.

“Senseless?” He asked with a soft huff of laughter.

The somewhat nervous hopeful way he smiled at her was completely unfair. No amount of cute head tilting and crinkling eyes should have made her forgive a total stranger for latching onto her face and giving her backside a quick onesie while he was at it. That was just…inappropriate. Yes, that was the word. _Inappropriate_.

“Oh yes, I’m swooning, can’t you tell?” She replied with an overly dramatic eye roll, though the words didn’t hold nearly as much bite as she was intending. She was definitely not swooning. She was _not_. Not in the least. She crossed her arms and made an attempt at looking disapproving, hoping she didn’t seem half as flustered as she felt. “I always enjoy being felt up by people I’ve never met before.”

His frown returned full force, his features twisting from mild bemusement into true worry with a hard edge of panic twitching in the sharp line of his jaw. He took a minute to look at her, _really_ look at her, taking in her worn jeans and her muddy sneakers and the cheap baby blue wristwatch her cousin had given her for her fifteenth nameday. And when his eyes found hers again, the spark of laughter she had admired only moments earlier had been utterly snuffed out.

He reached towards her face and she lurched away from him, not ready for a second round of whatever sort of intimate touching he had in mind. He pulled back just as quickly, regret and comprehension blooming on his face.

“You…bear no vallaslin?” His voice was strangled and she got the impression that he was sincerely beginning to wish he hadn’t woken up at all.

“Nobody wears vallaslin anymore,” she informed him gently, trying to piece together why this might be upsetting. He was bare faced himself after all; she probably wasn’t offending his gods with her lack of face tattoos. Despite the heraldry she had seen hanging around this crazy place, it seemed unlikely that he was Dalish. The elves of the Dales had been wanders, living in wooden aravels and camping out in the woods; she’d never heard of them living in castles. 

“I see,” he said, his voice little more than a whisper. His eyes were full of ghosts, drifting and distant even as he gazed at her. His face was ashen, harrowed, as though some vital thing inside him was withering as she watched. It shouldn’t be possible for someone to look that sad.

“May I take a look at your hand, please?” he asked. “The left one.” His tone was formal now, any trace of warmth or humor dissipating with the revelation that she was not what he had been expecting. The idea that she was somehow a disappointment to him stung more than it had a right to.

She wordlessly extended the requested appendage.

He took her hand in both of his, splaying her palm with long callused fingers. He outlined the shape of it with a melancholy reverence, lightly tracing each of her fingers one by one, observing every crease and freckle, paying special attention to the pale skin of the birthmark that ran across the length of her palm. The longer he studied it, the further his face fell.

He released her when his hands began trembling.

It was like watching poison spreading in a glass of water. He curled into himself, shoulders sagging, head bowing, face crumpling silently into open despair. He brought his hand to his right wrist, sliding his fingers up under the sleeve of his sweater to touch something underneath it that she couldn’t see. He shuddered, a thin keening sob broke past his lips, sliding from him like a dagger from a deep wound.

It was a sound she knew all too well, the cry of a breaking heart.

“I’m sorry,” she told him, the words felt empty and inadequate, but she was not sure what else to say. He shook his head at her.

“No,” he replied vehemently, the smooth timber of his voice splintering with the swell of his rising horror. “No no _no_. It was not meant to happen this way.” He staggered to his feet, swaying dangerously.

“I have to…get out of here,” he insisted blearily, stumbling blindly towards the door she had come in by. “I need to be somewhere I can reach the Fade. I can find her there. I can-”

He dropped to the floor in a dead faint.

She sighed deeply.

“Shit.”

* * *

 

The first time he saw her, she was in chains.

Trailing at the end of Mythal’s grand procession as it twined its way through one of several courtyards in Ghilan’nain’s summer palace as they headed towards the banquet hall for an evening of revelry, the sound of muffled screaming came drifting through a heavy curtain of climbing wisteria that was growing up the side of one white marbled wall. Knowing that it was probably best for everyone, including himself, to simply ignore the noise and pretend he was blissfully unaware of what their gracious hostess allowed to happen to her slaves, he clenched his jaw and made to turn away. The cry came again, earsplitting and terrified, the sound of an animal that knows it is about to die, and before he knew it, he was wrenching back the door to the servant’s wing that had been concealed by the sprawling flowers, his face hard and sharp with rage, teeth bared like the beast he’d been named for.

No rule she could have broken deserved a punishment that made her shriek like that.

There was a woman crouched on the tiled floor, her wrists restrained by heavy silverite manacles inscribed with runes to prevent her from using her magic, connected by a thick chain that was looped through a ring attached to the wall. She was small and dark, her long black hair pooling around her like a bottle of spilled ink. Her back was a ruin of welts and deep gashes, slick with a bright sheen of blood which was slowly staining the remnants of her simple white tunic a deep unsettling crimson.

A tall well-built man stood with his back to him, a cruel-looking whip comprised of seven tails forged from ice magic crackling ominously in his fist. He could feel the cold radiating off it from where he stood by the door.

“What is going on in here?” He snarled as the other man turned to face him.

“Nothing for you to concern yourself with, My Lord,” Ghilan’nain’s man sneered. He was so fair that it was unnerving to look at him, the intricate silver vallaslin swirling over his snowy skin indicating that he was a high ranking slave, possibly one of the Evanuris’ stewards. He studied the intruder with eyes like chips of bright blue ice, cold and uncaring, his feral grin an oozing unpleasant red. The man’s smile broadened at his apparent trepidation, flashing a mouth full of sharp jagged teeth.

‘Ghilan’nain and her _creatures_ ’, he thought with disdain. He wondered what this one had started out as before she had gotten her hands on him.

“What has she done to deserve such a beating?” he insisted, gesturing to the woman in chains before folding his arms stubbornly across his chest.

“At first she was only going to go hungry a few days, someone managed to break one of the Mistress’s crystal vases, you see.” His azure eyes gleamed with delighted malice as he glanced back to the woman on the floor, “But then she went and told a _lie_. To our beloved lady herself, no less!”

The man tutted in mocking disapproval, shaking his head at her.

“What was the lie?” he persisted. The man’s face slipped into a frown as his gaze slid back to him.

“I know who you are, Wolfling,” he grunted. “You may serve the All Mother as her champion, but your face is as marked as mine. My orders are to whip this wretch until either truth or death finds her ungrateful tongue, and I won’t be swayed from my duty by anyone, but My Lady or her equal.”

“That does not mean you have leave to ignore my questions,” he pointed out heatedly. He had _chosen_ to serve Mythal, and he could leave her service whenever he wished. Granted, not without suffering some of his social status, but that was beside the point. He could remove his vallaslin as easily as an article of clothing, it had never been branded onto his skin as it had on the two figures before him. He was of noble birth and belonged to no one but himself.

“She confessed to breaking the vase this afternoon while cleaning in the corridor outside the Great Hall,” the steward sighed with a sour expression. “Unfortunately for her, several of the other handmaidens seem to recall her helping prepare My Lady’s bedchamber for the arrival of Mistress Andruil.” His hungry smirk reappeared, “And if she was folding sheets and scattering flower petals, chances are she wasn’t at the other end of the palace smashing finery.”

“She is being punished because she was innocent?” he barked in indignation.

“She’s being punished because she won’t tell the truth!” the steward growled, twisting around and snapping the whip across the girl’s already savaged shoulders. She howled once again, her back bowing, her legs kicking frantically at the floor, slipping in her own blood as she instinctually scrambled to distance herself from her attacker.

For a few moments the only sound was the woman’s ragged breathing, visibly shuddering as she gulped down deep pulls of air and fighting back the urge to cry. She managed to reign in her suffering much more quickly than he had anticipated; it came with practice he supposed, a thought that only served to fuel his ire. She let out a deep rattling sigh, and then she turned her head to look at him over her shoulder. Her eyes caught his, blazing violet as bright as mage fire in the dim lighting of the hallway, searing him to the bone with the intensity of her unmasked contempt.

He unconsciously took a step back.

“The other maids are mistaken, Ser,” she said tremulously, her expression melting into timidity as she shifted her focus to the man with the whip, “I was the one who broke the vase.”

“ _Liar!_ ” the steward screamed, moving to strike her with the whip once more. He caught the man’s wrist with one hand, his grip clenching and furious.

“You will not touch her again,” he promised darkly.

“Well well, what have we here?” a cool enigmatic voice spoke from behind him. “Release him, my champion. Damaging someone else’s property without permission is unseemly.”

He reluctantly freed the steward from his grasp, turning to greet the new arrivals with his head bowed in chafing submission.

Mythal stood in the doorway, tall and golden in a gown of rich wine colored silks embroidered with a pattern of large gilded leaves, flanked on either side by their hostess and her bond mate.

A vision of light mossy greens with silver accents, Ghilan’nain was pale and lovely and petulant as ever, picking at the long sleeves of her suede dress fretfully as her dark amber eyes took in the sight before her. Andruil was her opposite in almost every way, hard where her lover was soft, sun bronzed skin and hair like flame. She scowled in open irritation, crossing her lean muscular arms over her hunting leathers. She had never been one skirts and frippery.

The All Mother bore an amused smile, but there was a flash of danger lurking in her yellow eyes he knew all too well not to dismiss. She was clearly displeased that he had acted on his own. He made a quick calculation on how best to explain the situation at hand.

“Forgive my rash behavior, My Lady,” he said gruffly, still struggling to clamp down on his anger. “This woman is being severely penalized for the crimes of another. It is unjust.”

“Is this true, wife of my daughter?” Mythal questioned, turning her piercing gaze to the woman at her side.

“She lied to me about destroying a valuable possession,” Ghilan’nain sniffed in high pitched sanctimonious disdain. “It shows a want of devotion to her betters that is not to be borne.”

“It is obvious that she is only lying to spare someone else the fate she suffers now,” he argued hotly, “I believe that speaks very highly of her sense of loyalty.”

“Loyalty to anyone but her mistress is an act of betrayal on its own,” Andruil snarled. Mythal raised a hand to halt any further input she may have had on the subject. The look she shot him was hardly more favorable.

“She belongs to Ghilan’nain, my champion,” Mythal reminded him firmly. “She owes her fealty to her alone.”

Her eyes slid over to the woman in question who had done her best to prostrate herself on the floor as much as her fetters would allow. The evanuris considered her for a moment, her look scrutinizing and unreadable, before a smirk curled up one corner of her dark lips.

“Still, such willingness to protect another is…admirable, if misguided in the case at hand. But…we are not wholly without mercy.” Her gaze flicked back towards Ghilan’nain, “Daughter-in-law?”

“You cannot be serious, Mother!” Andruil interjected heatedly, “You’re going to pardon this lying piece of filth because your pet thinks it’s pretty?”

“A wolf is no one’s pet,” he bit out tersely.

“Is that so?” Andruil asked with a harsh bark of laughter, her green eyes as cutting as a pair of blades. “But I’ve seen you preform such excellent tricks while under the command of my mother. You fetch and sit and heel so prettily. I wonder…are you any good at playing dead?”

“I have no interest in your sexual perversions,” he answered coolly.

“Peace!” Mythal demanded sharply, silencing them both in an instant. “I have yet to reach a verdict, I wish only to question the girl, and most people are easier to read when they are not chained to a wall. Ghilan’nain, do not make me ask again.”

“Vallassan!” Ghilan’nain snapped at her steward with an expression that could curdle milk. The man frowned with an air of sullen disappointment, but rushed to do his mistress’ bidding none the less.

“Stand, child, if you are able,” Mythal commanded the woman as soon as her shackles had been undone. “What have you to say for yourself? The punishment for a broken vase was surely not so harsh that you feel you must sacrifice your life to shield another from it.”

“You speak with great wisdom, as always, My Lady,” the woman answered haltingly once she had managed to pull herself to her feet. Her legs were trembling with the effort to remain upright, and she kept her gaze fixed firmly on the floor as she fumbled with the scraps of her tattered shift in an attempt to retain some shred of modesty. The bronze vallaslin of a midlevel servant peeked out from beneath dark mussed curls as her eyes darted towards her mistress nervously. “And yet, the same blow that would only cripple some may strike another down.”

“How eloquent,” Andruil sneered. “It’s almost as though it believes it has the capacity for honor.”

“E-even a slave may-” the woman began to respond, but found her courage quailing beneath the penetrating glare of her mistress’ wife. “Forgive me, My Lady. I spoke out of turn.”

“Finish your thought, child,” Mythal instructed her, casting a disapproving frown at Andruil. “You were asked to speak; my daughter was not.”

“I-I was simply going to say that even a slave may choose to die for what they believe, My Lady,” she murmured, her eyes still downcast. “It is one of the few choices we have.”

“ _Insolence!_ ” Ghilan’nain hissed, taking an angry step forward. He moved to block her path.

“The sentiment is a noble one,” he insisted. “She has done you no harm in protecting her friend beyond denying you a second target for your wrath. She has been punished, let it be enough.”

“That is not your decision to make, Wolf.” Andruil growled.

“My daughter has the right of it, my champion. The girl’s fate is not for you to decide.” Mythal told him, frowning pensively. “Though it seems a shame to destroy a spirit with such…potential.”

“This is a senseless waste of life,” he protested sourly.

“You are no great leader,” Ghilan’nain sneered over at him haughtily. “You are sent to command troops which are not your own, the words you speak to rally them belong to Mythal. You have no idea what it is to inspire the devotion of your followers, or the perils in allowing a bad seed to set roots among those who are sworn to serve you. She bears my markings. I own her life, but in return I protect her, feed her, put the clothes on her back. When she breaks her vow of service I am well within my rights to withdraw my protection and seek retribution.”

“You make an excellent point, wife of my daughter,” Mythal told her, with a thin cunning smile. “Perhaps it is time I taught my champion what it means to be held accountable for the welfare of another.”

“My Lady?” He baulked in surprise. He could usually count on Mythal being at least sympathetic to his opinions, if not wholly aligned with them.

“The girl’s life is yours, if you would have it. Since you seem to be such a great admirer of her loyalty, you must see if you are capable of earning it. You are skilled and clever, my champion, but it takes more than that to be a competent leader. Ghilan’nain is at least partially correct in her assertions; you have never been truly responsible for more than yourself.” Mythal told him evenly, amusement dancing in her golden eyes.

“The girl is not yours to give, Mother,” Andruil reminded her with a disgusted curl of her lip.

“I will grant Ghilan’nain due compensation, if it comes to that,” Mythal said with a shrug. “I doubt she will be particularly heartsick over the loss of a single handmaiden.”

“The vase was worth more to me than she is,” Ghilan’nain grumbled sulkily.

“I have no desire to own a slave!” He objected, glancing over at the woman in question. She was still staring at the floor, her face completely blank, seemingly resigned to her fate.

“Then she will die,” Mythal informed him flatly.

The woman finally raised her eyes to meet his once more. Bright and intelligent, he could sense her weighing every possible outcome of the situation at hand, but she was wise enough to know not to offer her own thoughts on the subject without being asked. Her mouth was pressed into a thin line, and he got the distinct impression that she didn’t like him very much. She clearly had no faith in his willingness to save her. She likely thought he was just some petty highborn brat who had decided in passing that he didn’t like the sound of her screams.

He found himself absurdly insulted by the idea of it.

“If that is the only way that her life may be spared…then I accept,” he said through gritted teeth, still fuming internally. He had no use for a slave of any sort, let alone a handmaiden, perhaps Mythal could find some other use for her as soon as they left Ghilan’nain’s palace.

“This is a farce,” Andruil howled in outrage, “he has no vallaslin to claim her with! She will be marked as belonging to you, Mother, and then when she inevitably causes more trouble, he will foist the burden of punishing her onto your shoulders.”

“Let her keep Ghilan’nain’s markings, if that is your concern,” Mythal said dismissively with a wave of her hand. “If she escapes, or he attempts to free her, she will be returned to her former mistress, and she may deal with her however she sees fit.”

“He must claim her in some fashion,” Ghilan’nain said with obvious distaste. “It would not do for him to walk around with property that everyone will assume is mine. The implications would be…unpleasant.”

“Hm, a valid concern,” Mythal conceded. “What have you to say, my champion? She is yours now. You must mark her to protect the reputations of all those involved, and to insure the safety of your new charge.”

His stomach lurched at the idea of burning some sort of brand into her skin, but Mythal was right, if people thought she belonged to Ghilan’nain, it would cause…complications.

The woman’s face remained impassive, but he thought he caught a flash of fear somewhere in the depths of those jewel bright eyes. He didn’t blame her, the process of applying and altering vallaslin was said to be excruciating. He frowned thoughtfully.

He pulled his necklace over his head, fingering the blackened wolf jaw for a moment before holding it out to her wordlessly.

She made no move to take it from him.

“That is no mark!” Andruil protested.

“It is mine!” he snarled back her. “Anyone who knows me has seen me wear it, and it contains a fragment of my power. No slave could come by such an item on their own, people will see it and understand that she is protected.”

“It is enough,” Mythal said with a dry huff of laughter. “I did not expect such sentiment from you, my champion.”

His ears burned. He scowled and glanced away, still holding out the necklace like fumbling lover with a bouquet of flowers.

“However,” she continued, “there are ceremonies to be observed. Ghilan’nain?”

The evanuris in question stomped forward imperiously, and placed the palm of her hand against the woman’s forehead, possibly with a bit more force than was strictly necessary. There was a bright flare of magic, and to her credit, the woman managed not to flinch.

“I release you from my service,” Ghilan’nain said simply, though her expression was more than a little bitter. She made a point of noticeably wiping her hand on her dress as she walked away.

Feeling strangely nervous, he stepped forward and carefully slipped his necklace over the woman’s head. He reached up and gingerly brushed his fingertips across her vallaslin, trying to be as gentle as he could with his magic. Her eyes were fathomless, and for half a second he could not find the words to speak.

“In return for your service, I swear to protect you, guide you, and see to your wants,” he recited the words he never thought he’d say with a perplexed frown. Perhaps he could figure out some sort of loophole to free them both from this arrangement, but for now, they were trapped.

 Her vallaslin glowed briefly beneath his fingers and she closed her eyes against the light. When she opened them again, she looked like she wasn’t quite sure what to make of him. Her mouth twitched downward for a moment before she caught herself and schooled her features into neutral acquiescence once more.

“Master.”

* * *

 

“What is your name?” he asked her when they had finally made it back to his suite in Mythal’s palace. She had been completely silent on the journey here, grasping tightly at the light fur trimmed mantle he had pulled from his shoulders to cover the remnants of her tunic and staring down at her bare feet the whole way. He had not pressed her for conversation, preferring the quiet himself, but he couldn’t just call her ‘girl’ or ‘you there’ if they were going to be sharing the same living space.

She gave him an odd look.

“My…former mistress called me Da'banaras, when she was pleased with me,” she informed him flatly after a moment of contemplation.

“And when she was not pleased with you?” he queried, arching a brow at her and frowning.

“Then she called me a great many things, none of which are particularly flattering,” she admitted with a tight shrug of her shoulders, her expression still blank.

“I presume you would prefer that I call you Da'banaras,” he replied with a faint smile, attempting to be friendly. They were going to be living in close quarters for a while, at least until he figured out some way to get them both out of this mess, but there was no need for animosity between them. Surely she understood that he had acted in the interest of saving her.

“You may call me whatever you wish, Master,” she answered with a slight bow of her head.

“Do _not_ call me that,” he snapped, harsher than he had meant to be. He sighed and ran his hands over his face in frustration. “I wish to call you by your name.”

“A slave’s name is their owner’s whim,” she told him, her gaze fixed firmly on the floor.

“I am not about to choose a name for you as though you were some stray cat I found wandering the streets and decided to take home,” he huffed in irritation. “A slave is not free from preferences simply because they are generally not permitted to act upon them, choose a name that you wish to answer to, and that is the name I will call you by. Feel free to take your time considering, I understand if the prospect appears a bit daunting. For now, I am going to bed, it has been a trying day.”

For a moment, she actually seemed surprised, her eyebrows rising and her lips parting slightly, lost for words. Good, he was glad she was capable of displaying some sort of facial expression. He fought the urge to roll his eyes at her.

“And…where shall I sleep, Mas- My Lord?” she asked carefully, catching her slip at the last second.

Oh.

 _Damn_.

“I…only have one bed,” he confessed apologetically. “I will make arrangements for you tomorrow.  There is a dressing room I have no use for, its conversion into a bedchamber should be simple enough. Or I can ask about finding a place for you with Mythal’s slaves if you prefer. For now, you may make use of the couch here in the drawing room. I have fallen asleep on it often enough to vouch for its comfort.”

“You are most kind, My Lord,” she responded politely. He laughed.

“Well, you are certainly the first person to accuse me of that,” he said with a flash of a grin before retreating into his bedroom.

He woke several hours later to the buzzing sensation of his magic reacting to one of the wards around the door to his suite. Someone had been foolish enough to trip them on their way in or out of his rooms.

As he made his way back into his drawing room as quickly and quietly as he could, stave in hand, he became uneasy with the realization that the woman who should have been sleeping on his couch had made no noise at the intruder’s presence. Which meant she was either in cahoots with them or…they had already dealt with her. He scowled, his grip on his staff tightening in his fury.

Would Andruil or Ghilan’nain really go through all of this trouble over a single slave?

With a single gesture, he lit all the braziers in the room and braced himself for a fight.

There was no one there.

Folded neatly on the low table in front of the couch was his mantle, his wolf jaw necklace placed gently on top of it for him to find.

The girl was gone.

He raced out into the hallway to try and snatch her back to safety before it was too late. Nothing. The corridor was empty and silent, without so much as the distant sound of footfalls to guide his way.

He stomped back to his rooms. He raged. He fumed. He kicked over several innocent pieces of furniture.

_How could she be so foolish?_

She had left without even the small bit of protection his token may have granted her. If she was caught, they would hand her back to Ghilan’nain, and the consequences would be dire. Outside of that, he was sure the evanuris would take great pleasure in telling anyone who would listen about how he could not even manage to keep track of a slave for one night. His reputation would be in shambles.

All he had worked for, all he had hoped to accomplish, hoped to _change_ … tossed to the winds on the whims of a wayward slave girl.

He began pacing the length of the room in restless agitation, practically frothing at the mouth as he tried to think of a way to track down a woman he knew almost nothing about before someone else discovered she was missing. Even spirits would not be especially helpful when he knew so little about who they were looking for. This was an absolute mess.

He was in much the same state several hours later when his missing slave walked back into the room with an armful of long purple flowers.

She blanched at the sight of him.

For his part, he was too surprised that she had come back on her own to do much of anything besides gape at her.  

“M-master, I m-mean, My Lord!” She sputtered in abject horror, the flowers tumbling from her hands as she quickly dropped to her knees. “I…thought you had gone to bed. I _never_ would have presumed to leave if I had imagined you might need me for something.”

The blatant lie chafed almost as much as the fact she had wandered off in the first place. He glowered at her, folding her arms across his chest.

“Whatever else you may think of me, it would be most unwise to assume I am a fool,” he told her coldly. “You were waiting for me to fall asleep before you snuck out to do…whatever it is you were doing. Unfortunately for you, I keep several wards around both Mythal’s chambers and my own, in case someone is foolish enough to attempt to attack either of us in the night.”

She visibly trembled and he heaved a sigh. He couldn’t believe he honestly preferred it when she was casting him dubious glances and pretending not to have facial expressions.

He snagged his necklace off the table and crouched down in front of her.

“I think we need to develop an understanding if either of us expects to escape this relationship unscathed,” he informed her with a slight grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I have neither a use nor a desire to own a slave,” he said bluntly. “I believe I said as much earlier, but I would understand if you assumed that was merely posturing to make a point in front of the evanuris. It was not.”

He sighed again, running a hand through his sleep tousled hair.

“To be perfectly honest…I’m not entirely certain what to do with you. I suppose I shall have to ask you to accompany me when I attend certain social functions. Mythal will expect it, and Ghilan’nain and Andruil will likely cause a fuss if I cloister you away somewhere. Your duties will be relatively light, I assure you. I am not a man who particularly enjoys being fussed over. I do not know what you may have heard of me, but when I return to my own rooms, I both expect and require privacy and quiet.

That being said, so long as you are discreet and do not hinder my work or my studies, I see no reason why we cannot find a way to peacefully co-exist until I have discovered a solution to our current situation which suits us both.” He smirked at her knowingly, “And I have no objections to you making a few nighttime visits to your…lover?”

He chuckled at the flash of indignation on her face, holding up is hands in a gesture of surrender.

“As I said, it is nothing to me, I do not expect your entire life to revolve around mine.” He held out the jaw bone with one hand. “I know you heard how important this was to keep with you, why did you risk removing it?”

“I…was not leaving the palace grounds, My Lord,” she said, ducking her head away from him, “I did not think I would need protection here.”

There was something evasive in her tone, but he decided to let it be…for now. If he interrogated her like a criminal on their first evening together, she would likely never trust him with anything.

“Ours is a world of deception and intrigue, I am afraid,” he told her with a meaningful glance, “It is better to be safe than sorry.”

She bit her lip uncertainly, but nodded in acceptance all the same. Careful to avoid touching him directly, she took the necklace from him and slipped it back over her head.  He offered her a thin smile, rising to his feet and offering her a hand to do the same.

She hesitated, but took his hand none the less, allowing him to pull her to her feet. He miscalculated just how light she was, jerking her upward much faster than he had anticipated. She stumbled into him, a low hiss of pain sliding from her before she managed to steady herself.

“I was told that Ghilan’nain’s healers had seen to your injuries!” He frowned at her in dismay, placing a hand on her shoulder.

“They did,” she told him, hastily moving away, “my bleeding was stopped and I was given a salve to numb the pain.”

“That is _not_ the same as healing,” he insisted, his frown deepening in displeasure. He gestured to the couch, “Come. I am no great healer, but I will see what I can do.”

“That is not necessary,” she replied quickly, shaking her head at him with an air of slight mortification.

He sat down on the couch and patted the place beside him, smirking at her expectantly. She sighed in defeat and did as she was bidden.

She sat facing away from him, her back ramrod straight, tensing for some anticipated unpleasantness. He waited patiently for her to get comfortable before making any sort of move. She took a deep breath and pulled the thick curtain of her hair over her shoulder. She had managed to tie her torn tunic in key places to keep it from falling off again, but he could still see most of her back through the gaping holes in the garment.

He baulked in surprise. There were no scars on her back, no bruising or signs of recent trauma. All that was left of her beating from earlier was the blood stains on her shift.

“You are using a glamour,” he accused in amazement, more than a little impressed. Spells that changed one’s appearance were complicated and difficult to master with any sort of subtlety, it was not the sort of art a slave would be typically taught.

She barely contained the urge to jump off the couch and flee, clearly afraid that she was about to be punished for displaying competence in something a slave was not meant to know.

“I-I only used it so as not to displease my former mistress with my appearance,” she sputtered, hunching her shoulders, not daring to turn and face him directly.

 “What could possibly so offensive about the way you look?” he asked, completely candid with his astonishment at such a notion.

She did not answer him, though whether she held her tongue in shame or fear, he honestly could not tell.

“I cannot heal you wounds if I cannot see them,” he pointed out gently after a few more moments of silence.

She twisted half way around to look back at him, her brows furrowing anxiously. She studied his face with nervous darting eyes, perhaps searching for hints of what his reaction might be when she dropped the spell. Eventually, she closed her eyes and nodded her head once in recognition of his authority in this situation. She had little choice but to acquiesce.

 There was a brief shimmer of magic before the blackness began seeping from the roots of her hair, running down to the tips of her curls like paint washing away, leaving waves of pale blonde in its wake. Her skin was still dark, but it became less olive and more of a golden brown, like polished bronze. Her eyes still shone like amethyst.

And then there were the scars.

A thousand tiny nicks and cuts ran across her hands, a few long wheeling slashes curled up her forearms and biceps, but most noticeable of all was the burn on her neck. It spanned almost the entire right side of her throat and spilled onto her upper shoulder as well, the skin still slightly paler than the rest of her, the flesh knotted and angry-looking.

She blushed and placed a hand over it when she caught him staring.

“Slaves with such deformities are not permitted to work inside the palace,” she said by way of explanation. “I…did not wish to be sent away. So, I taught myself the glamour.”

“You were born this way?” he asked, sounding doubtful.

“…no,” was all the answer he received. He nodded, not offended by her reluctance in the least.

“Your mastery of the glamour charm is truly remarkable,” he said sincerely, hoping to put her at ease, “especially since you claim to be self-taught. Is that the only form you know?”

She quirked a brow at him uncertainly, but closed her eyes and focused her magic once more.

Her hair straightened, changing from white gold to a dark auburn. Her skin lightened until it was a creamy peach, splattered with a dash of freckles across her nose and cheeks. A dimple formed in the cleft of her chin as she blinked up at him with eyes as blue as the sky.

He threw back his head and laughed in unexpected amusement. She could have passed as his sister. His _twin_ sister.

She shifted back to her true appearance, scars and all, and offered him a small smile.

It was a weak, flimsy thing, but he was going to grab onto it for dear life. The woman was clever and talented, if nothing else, it would be foolish to become her enemy if he could possibly avoid it. Besides, she had a nice smile, and he would not mind the chance to see more of it.

He shook his head to rid himself of such thoughts. That was far too dangerous a path to walk. For both of them.

“Let me see your back,” he said quietly, more of a request than a command. She turned away obligingly, much more relaxed than she had been a few minutes ago.

Her back was a mess, the long gashes left from the whip had barely scabbed over at all, and several of them had reopened. The healer must have been given orders to do as little as possible to help her, insuring that she walked away with even more scars. He grimaced, uncertain if he would be able to help as much as he had hoped.

As gently as he knew how, he reached out with his magic and began the process of healing her.

She let out a few small gasps of pain and surprise as he worked, but for the most part, she kept her silence. When he had almost finished with the last cut near the base of her spine, she finally seemed to find her voice.

“Aili,” she said, her voice nearly a whisper. “My mother named me Aili.”

* * *

 

“Ouch!” The girl who had woke him up grunted as they stumbled into the wall of the staircase for at least the sixth time. “I swear by Andraste’s great heaving bosom, if you pass out on top of me one more time, I am leaving you here to be nibbled to death by Fade mice…or whatever weird thing you have around here.”

“You…” he began weakly, breathing hard, “have my sincerest apologies.”

She looked away from him bashfully, clearly not anticipating a response. The world was heavy, spinning away from his grasp. He stared dazedly at the tip of her pointed ear where it peeked out from behind a few loose blonde curls, rosy with her embarrassment.

“Yeah…well…don’t worry about it,” she said stiffly, “I mean, you can’t even walk a straight line, I wouldn’t really abandon you to hungry rodents.”

He mumbled something unintelligible in Elvhen, his head bobbing dangerously. Her face swam before him, brow furrowed in concern. She had freckles, he realized suddenly. He decided instantly that he liked them, they looked much nicer than the vallaslin. He tried to tell her as much, but the words came out…wrong.

She pulled his arm more firmly across her shoulders and tightened her grip on his waist before carefully maneuvering them down the last flight of stairs leading out of the tower. She was warm and solid at his side, small and strong despite how heavily he was sagging against her. The most pressing concern was that he was more than half a foot taller than she was, which meant that if he completely lost consciousness again and she had to haul him out of here like a sack of potatoes, some part of him would likely end up dragging on the ground. Or he would simply crush her.

“So,” she began carefully as they awkwardly shoved their way into the Great Hall and began shuffling towards the huge double doors at the far side, “what is this place anyway?”

“It is a prison,” he murmured, still struggling to keep his feet. “And a hiding place.”

She paused for a moment, shooting him a startled glance.

“Does that make you a prisoner or a fugitive?” she asked, fighting to keep her tone as neutral as possible.

“The answer to that question is…complicated,” he sighed.

“That is…less than comforting,” she grunted.

“You would be amazed at how often I garner that response,” he told her dryly. “I can assure you that I have no intention of harming you, but even if I did, in my present condition, I believe you would find me somewhat easy to overpower.”

She did not seem wholly reassured by his response, and he supposed she had several reasons not to be.

He could not stop starting at her, her face, her hair, the bow of her mouth, the curve of her jaw…everything was the echo of a lost dream. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew that she was not who he wanted, but the resemblance was…uncanny. And he missed her. More than he had words for, more than the long winding paths through the Fade, or the smell of trees, or the feeling of solid ground beneath his feet. He still had so much to say to her, so much to explain and apologize for. He knew she would understand, she always understood, even when it broke her heart.

“You know,” the girl huffed in wry amusement, “if your intention is to whisper sweet nothings in my ear, you may want to stick with a language I can actually understand.”

“Ir abelas, Vhenan,” he replied automatically. He had not realized he had started babbling again.

“Don’t call me that,” she groused, the color rising in her face as her eyes darted away from him. “I don’t know who you think I am, but my name is Aili.”

_“I’m Aili,” the Dalish woman told him with a nervous smile, her eyes darting between him and the dwarf who was caressing his crossbow a little too lovingly. Snowflakes and ash caught in the gentle curls surrounding her face, the cold mountain sunlight igniting her hair into a white gold halo. Her eyes were bright as gemstones, violet as a wounded heart. A fraction of his power crackled in her palm._

_His breath hitched in his throat._

_She caught his gaze, and her smile widened, shining brighter than the mark on her hand, “Aili of clan Lavellan.”_

He stumbled forward, nearly sending them both to the ground.

“Aili,” he said with a strangled bark of laughter, biting back a sob. “Yes, of course you are.”

She gave him a strange look, arching a brow at him like his was crazy. He wasn’t certain she was wrong.

“If there are to be introductions…my name is Solas.”


	3. Sunflower

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sulenera belongs to Littleblue-eyedbird, and she is graciously letting me borrow her for this fic. <3

_The pulse of war and passion of wonder,_

_The heavens that murmur, the sounds that shine,_

_The stars that sing and the loves that thunder,_

_The music burning at heart like wine,_

_An armed archangel whose hands raise up_

_All senses mixed in the spirit's cup_

_Till flesh and spirit are molten in sunder_

_— These things are over, and no more mine._

_-Algernon Charles Swinburne_

 

She was pretty sure she had managed to dodge most of the security cameras on their way out of the museum, but hopefully the two guards on duty were both watching the Gwaren Wyverns lose another football match, as usual. No one appeared out of the woodwork to ask her why she was dragging a bald delirious elf out of the basement at any rate, which was better luck than she had been having for the majority of the evening. Small mercies.

Thinking they were in the clear once they had made it out to the bus stop, Aili indulged in a deep sigh of relief.

The feeling was short lived however, as a familiar blond human came striding up to her from the direction of the museum shortly after she and her elven vagabond had slumped down on one of the cold metal benches to wait for their ride.

Shit.

She put on her most winning smile.

“Cullen,” Aili beamed at him as though having a mostly unconscious man slouched against her shoulder was a perfectly normal occurrence. “Did you just get done with your shift?”

“I did,” the security guard responded slowly, eyeing the figure leaning on her with mounting suspicion. Cullen was younger than the other guards at the museum, and he hadn’t been working there much longer than she had. He was the quintessential picture of the boy next door type, tall and pleasingly muscular; the sort who was probably a jock in high school and had most likely been sweet on the same girl since he was sixteen. He was nice enough she supposed, but they never got the chance to talk very much. “I saw you walking out, but it looked like someone was giving you some, uh… _trouble_. I wanted to make sure you were alright. You usually say good night before you leave.”

The last part sounded a bit wounded, which was honestly just ridiculous. They had barely had more than three real conversations in the time she had worked here, and two of them had been about the weather. He was always friendly though, always perking up a bit when she walked in the door and flashed her ID badge, always smiling when he told her good morning. Sometimes he even brought her a cup of the nasty coffee from the break room when she was trapped down in Cataloging Hell. She blinked in comprehension.

Oh.

 _Shit_.

“That was…sweet of you,” she sputtered, screaming internally. Why now? Why did she have to figure this out about her hot co-worker when she was trying to escape with something that might technically be considered museum property? You know, if he hadn’t also been a person. She wasn’t sure if that made it better or worse.

“I’m fine though, really,” Aili assured him with a strained laugh, feeling her stomach churn. She was having the most bizarre and stressful evening of her entire life, she was about as far from ‘fine’ as it was possible to get. “This is…a friend…of my parents. Solas. He…um, used to work for them in their bookstore in Denerim. He moved here looking for work, but he’s had a hard time finding a place that will take him. I guess he managed to scrounge up enough to get drunk though… He called me asking for a place to sleep and I told him to meet me here.”

“He isn’t wearing shoes,” Cullen noted skeptically.

She glanced down at Solas’ feet, which were indeed bare save for a pair of odd looking foot wraps that left the balls of his feet and his toes exposed to the elements. They were also covered in mud. She winced.

“Ah. Yes. Well…he’s had a rough night,” Aili replied haltingly, trying to sound nonchalant and not doing a very good job of it. “Clothes tend to go missing when you’re on a bender. The last time I got drunk, my friend Sera went around and nicked everyone’s pants and then forgot where she hid them. It took nearly three hours to find them all the next morning.”

Cullen laughed uncertainly, rubbing at the back of his neck and glancing away from her. It wasn’t until she noticed the very telling blush creeping across his face that she realized she had just handed him an excuse to picture her in her underpants. She barely resisted the urge to groan.

This conversation was getting more and more mortifying but the second.

Thankfully the bus rolled up before she got the chance to shove her foot any farther into her mouth. She offered Cullen a weak smile before standing up and attempting to lug Solas back onto his feet. He fell against her heavily, muttering something in slurred Elvish again that she couldn’t make out. Cullen rushed forward to lend her a hand maneuvering him up the stairs and onto the bus.

“Do you need any help getting him home?” he asked, his brow creasing in open concern. Aili smiled again, broad and sincere. Cullen was a decent sort, for a human.

“I’ll be alright,” she promised him. “Thank you, Cullen.”

“Any time,” he replied, sounding a little disappointed, but returning her smile none the less.

She guided her woozy cargo towards a seat near the back of the bus, exchanging a brief wave with Cullen through the window before the vehicle sped off into the night.

She glanced over at the elf who was passed out on her shoulder once again. Here he was: a tall, imposing, and mysterious figure from ancient times who had been sealed away for hundreds of years, and he was smearing drool on her shirt like a toddler. Aili grumbled in quiet aggravation.

“It’s a good thing you’re likely historically significant,” she told him dryly, not expecting an answer. He muttered something unintelligible and nuzzled his face into the side of her neck. She swallowed thickly.

‘Not me,’ Aili reminded herself firmly, even as she felt the blood burning in her cheeks. ‘He’s thinking of the girl with the forget-me-nots. I probably don’t even look that much like her, he’s just so out of it he’s grabbing onto the first person he saw. He’s imprinted on me like a baby duck.’

She snorted at the comparison.

“Aili,” he mumbled quietly, making her start in surprise. Her eyes shot to his face, only to discover that he was still sleeping, his expression tight and unhappy.

“I’m sorry,” he continued, plaintive now, aching, “I am…so sorry.”

“I know,” she replied, her voice nearly a whisper as she leaned her head on top of his gently. She wasn’t sure if he was still talking to her or not, but she supposed it didn’t matter much. If she knew anything about him, it was that he was filled with a genuine and staggeringly potent sense of remorse. It hung around him like a cloud, dragging her down with the weight she had seen reflected in his eyes. Eyes that looked at her and saw someone else’s face. She heaved a weary sigh. “I know you are.”

She turned her head to watch the city lights racing past her window, wondering exactly what sort of mess she had gotten herself into.

 

* * *

 

She always brought him flowers.

Every week without fail, he woke to a fresh bouquet sitting out in his drawing room. Lilies, hyacinth, tulips, peonies, even roses on one occasion, plus a menagerie of others he had no names for. He admittedly knew almost nothing about flowers, but the ones she picked were bright and cheerful, and their scent was usually sweet and unobtrusive.

He assumed the habit was something ingrained in her from her time spent attending Ghilan’nain, either that or she was trying to think of how to serve him when he never gave her anything to do, but he did not mind it. He found he was not bothered by anything she did, truth be told, and that was a bit of an oddity all on its own, as he tended to find most people irritating in some way or another.

Aili had taken the dressing room for her own, though he never learned if it was by her own choice or if Mythal had simply denied her a place in her slaves’ quarters. It was strange, but the Evanuris seemed set in her decision that Solas be the one to personally see to all of his slave's needs. The other servants had even gone so far as to refuse to go find clothing for her, though they had scraped and bowed and apologized profusely the entire time.

In the end, he’d had to take her to the tailor himself, which had been…humiliating. The first outfit they had put her in had been naught but strips of translucent silks and ropes of pearls that left practically nothing to the imagination, and while there was certainly nothing _wrong_ with the way she looked in it, he found himself cringing at what other people would assume her ‘duties’ were. It would not lend either of them much credit if other nobles thought he needed to lead around an attractive body slave in some lewd display of his sexual appetites. Not to mention the unwanted offers both of them were likely to receive as a result.

She had seemed relieved when he had hurriedly rushed her back into the changing room, barking orders to the harried tailor about putting her in something practical.

They had managed to escape with three or four modest tunics of varying weights to account for different seasons and climates, two pairs of leggings, a winter cloak, and a simple yet elegant floor length dress in deep green for formal occasions. The tailor had sniffed at him and insisted that Solas was not displaying his property correctly by dressing her is such humble attire, and had even mustered the gall to inform him that it did not suit someone of his station to be seen with such a poorly dressed slave. She was, after all, a reflection of his own status.

The man seemed to find his manners when all the lights in his shop had given way to an unnatural darkness and the sound of distant howling came rippling across the Fade. A large canine shadow had loped across the back wall, and Solas’ eyes illuminated with a cold furious power.

They were quickly bowed from the shop after that.   

Strangely enough, the purchase Aili had been most enchanted with was a pair of white doeskin foot wraps, buttery and soft, and embroidered with an intricate pattern of tiny silver flowers and swirling leaves along the tops that stopped just above her ankles.

“I’ve…never been given something to wear on my feet before,” she confessed sheepishly when he caught her staring down at them for the umpteenth time.

“Why not?” He asked, admittedly a bit confused by the idea. He had seen nobles dress their slaves in gold and jewels as ostentatious displays of wealth, but he had not paid much attention to their feet. He had not paid much attention to them at all, truth be told. He frowned at the realization.

“I’m…not sure,” she stammered, still getting used to the direct way he spoke to her. Her eyes flicked towards him for a moment, sharp and searching before darting away. “Perhaps the thought is that it makes it more difficult to run away.”  

He had not known what to say to that. He still did not know.

In theory, he would have gladly set all the slaves in the empire free. He firmly believed that service should be an honor, a _choice_. In practice however, the sentiment was not a sound one. The evanuris would never surrender that much of their might willingly. It would mean tearing down the pillars of their entire society stone by stone. Some may have called him brash, but Solas was no fool. He had a much better chance of improving the lot of the impoverished and powerless from a position of strength and status than he did as a revolutionary running pell-mell through the woods on his own.

It did not really seem like the sort of topic he should broach with someone he had only been acquainted with for a few days, especially not when said person also happened to be currently bound to serve him for all of eternity. He imagined that was the sort of situation that bred bias against the established order.

Even so, they had managed to fall into a surprisingly comfortable rhythm given the circumstances. She went where he went, excepting a few privileged meetings with Mythal, trailing slightly behind him like a small stone-faced shadow. Unless he had been asked to attend some formal function, she ate when he ate, though her meals were much more modest and she tended to take them in her own room.  And when he retired for the evening, so did she. Or at least she pretended to.

She had never tripped his wards again, though she simply may have found another way out of his rooms. He had never seen her leave or return with the flowers she brought, after all. He supposed he should have been a bit more worried about her late night wanderings, but the contract between them prevented her from attacking him with magic, and he doubted she had much chance of physically overpowering him unless she poisoned him first. More than that however, he had simply never given her much cause to want him dead. Well…he did not _think_ he had at any rate.

Not to mention that his untimely demise would likely also lead to her own execution.

Their relationship was not so much one born of trust as it was understanding. Still, they managed to hold a few quiet conversations without lapsing into cold silences. He tried to ensure that he only gave her direct orders when they were in public, though he was unsure if she noticed the difference between him asking her to do something and telling her to, but it mattered to him. It mattered that she was allowed to say no for some reason or another. He was not certain she understood that, and he was not sure how to convey the sentiment in a way that would make her believe him.

He supposed that there were some things only time could prove.

She walked into the drawing room on silent feet, carrying a tea service and a plate piled high with sweets, setting them down carefully in front of him as he read on the couch. He glanced up at her questioningly. When she had asked to step out for a moment, this was not the outcome he had anticipated.

“What is all of this for?” he asked, laying his book on the table and reaching for one of the dainty cream filled pastries. There was honey drizzled over the top of it. Delicious.

“I…could not think of anything else to do, My Lord,” Aili shrugged, folding her hands behind her back. “You decided to forego your midday meal, and there are still several hours until dinner will be served…I thought you might be hungry.”

“It…is not poisoned is it?” He asked, the first sweet more than half gone as he reached for a second. She made a face at him.

“I believe you may be well past saving if that were the case, My Lord,” she told him dryly.

He chuckled thickly, leaning back against the couch as he licked the honey from his fingers. He took a moment to observe her, long black hair and olive skin, posture prim and rigid, face blank as slate save for the faint traces of what looked like boredom puckering the line of her mouth. Her eyes lingered on his book.

“Can you read?” he inquired, placing his hand on the tome. She glanced away quickly.

“A little, My Lord,” she said with a nod of her head, “Just enough to read things like notes and lists of items to be ordered. We…were not usually permitted to view the memories bound in books. I am sure anything you found worthy of your interest far exceeds my abilities.”

“Enough of that,” he said with a dismissive hand gesture. “I am not so arrogant that every other word from your mouth must sing my praises. I endure enough of that simpering doublespeak when dealing with the court, I do not need more of it when I retire to my own quarters.”

“Forgive me, My Lord,” she muttered with a deep nod of her head, “I am afraid I do not know how else to address you.”

“Plainly, if you can. Honestly, when you are able. …and perhaps as though you did not think I was liable to throw something at you at any given moment,” he suggested with a quirk of his lips. “I understand that friendship may not be possible between us, given the circumstances, but I would like to think a certain amount of trust is achievable, at the very least. Beyond these walls, we both have our parts to play, but our masks need not be so firmly in place when we are here.”

“Masks?” She asked warily.

“The glamour,” he explained, gesturing to her face. “It is unnecessary. I understand why you may want to use it in public, and it would likely seem suspicious if my slave suddenly looked like a different person, but I am not about to send you to toil in the quarries simply because you have a few scars.”

“It is largely habit at this point, My Lord,” Aili told him with a sigh, but she allowed her hair to shift back into pale gold waves none the less. She still kept enough of the magic about her to conceal her scars however. He decided not to press the issue, willing to take any small step away from animosity between them as a victory.

She fumbled with her fingers for a few seconds in the silence that followed, clearly unsure of what to do now. Eventually she reached down for the porcelain kettle with the clear intent of pouring him a cup of the tea she had brought. He raised a hand to halt her.

“I…do not particularly care for tea,” he admitted apologetically.

“Oh,” she replied, a little deflated, setting the teapot back down on its tray.

“There is no reason for it to go to waste, however,” he said, snagging a third pastry off the plate in front of him and taking a healthy bite. This one was filled with strawberries. “By all means, help yourself.”

Aili gave him that look again, the one that made him wonder if he had just sprouted a second head that breathed fire and only spoke the rough trade tongue favored by criminals and shemlen barbarians. She seemed to make it every time he treated her with the slightest modicum of genuine kindness, and he was beginning to take it as a compliment. He grinned toothily.

“It was an offer, not a trap,” he chuckled.

She hesitated for a moment, but poured herself a modest amount of tea in spite of whatever reservations she had about his scrupulousness. Her eyes narrowed in distrust at the smug look on his face as she brought the cup to her lips and took a careful sip. Her expression immediately puckered in disgust.

“Bitter!” Aili objected with a cough, sputtering and wiping at her mouth with the back of her hand. Solas laughed.

“Not many people enjoy the tea Mythal prefers completely straight,” he informed her, plucking a few cubes of sugar from the little bowl next to a small pitcher of milk and dropping them into her abandoned teacup. “That should help.”

“I thought you said it wasn’t a trap!” she complained, scowling at him openly.

“I apologize,” he said, not sounding particularly sorry and barely trying to hide his amusement. Riling her up was a marked improvement from her usual act of pretending to have the emotional range of a plank of wood. It was probably good for her, not to mention entertaining for him. He held up the plate of sweets as a peace offering. “Perhaps one of these may earn your forgiveness?”

She blinked at him in astonishment.

“But…you like those,” she said, her brow knotting in confusion.

“I do,” he agreed, nodding his head in affirmation. “A little too much, truth be told.”

“What’s wrong with them?” she asked suspiciously, glaring down at the pastries as though they had offended her somehow.

“Nothing!” Solas insisted laughingly, picking up an apple tart and biting it in half. “See? Perfectly safe.”

He held the other half of the treat out to her, grinning triumphantly when she took it from him without a word. Her eyes drifted back toward his book.

“You may read it when I have finished, if you like,” he told her gently, making her start. “It is a history of the First Kingdom however, so you might find it a bit dry for your tastes.”

“I- …thank you. I…would like that very much, My Lord,” Aili replied, clearly taken aback and uncertain how she was meant to react to such magnanimity. She took a moment to glance around at the half a dozen bookshelves crammed along his walls before continuing, “You…have so many books. Are they all about history?”

“Not all,” he answered with a contented sigh, leaning back against the couch once more. “There are quite a few about magical theory, a handful on battle tactics and physical training techniques, and one or two novels as well. I believe someone even gave me a book of poems at some point. …you are free to read any of them, so long as you put them back when you are done.”

Apparently she had no words for that. She looked down at the half eaten apple tart in her hands, and for a moment he was afraid she was going to cry. Instead, she lifted the pastry to her mouth, taking a small cautious bite.

“How do you like it?” he asked softly. She offered him a thin smile.

“It’s delicious.”

* * *

 

It was times like these she was truly grateful that she only lived on the second floor of their apartment building. It might not have been in the best part of town, and the café next store might stay open late and have noisy patrons who made mischief at odd hours of the night, but it was relatively clean and usually rodent free, and the heat worked most of the time, so she really didn’t have much to complain about. Still, it would have been nice if the elevator had decided to work just this once.

Aili was in reasonably good shape, given the somewhat physical nature of her job as ‘the elf who hauled junk around’, and the fact that she went jogging most mornings. She also took a self-defense course with her cousin down at the community rec center once a week, just in case some creep decided to get fresh. Even so, by the time she dragged Solas up to her apartment, she was completely winded.

“I hope you get over out this whole ‘swooning’ business soon,” she panted as she jammed the key into the lock and jiggled it open, “because I absolutely draw the line at giving you a sponge bath, and the last thing this apartment needs is and old unwashed elf stinking up the couch.”

Solas snorted, though whether it was from amusement or offense was anyone’s guess.

Luckily for everyone involved, the trip from the front door to the sofa was a short one, and a few minutes later Aili had managed to maneuver him so he was laying down with his feet hanging off one end. She yanked a blanket off the back of the couch and tucked it around him as though he were a child who had caught a cold. She cast a worried glance down at his face as she pulled it up to his chin.

“Are you going to be all right?” She asked doubtfully. “Can you…reach the Fade from here?”

“I…am uncertain,” he admitted in a gruff voice. “This place feels… _strange_. Wrong. The Fade is here, but it is…distant. More difficult to reach than I have ever felt it.”

“Do you…uh, need to do something special to make it work?” she asked, shifting nervously and twiddling her fingers. “Burn some sage? Chant some fancy words? Drink the blood of a virgin beneath the full moon? -please, say no to the last one.”

Solas huffed briefly in tired amusement. “No, nothing like that,” he told her. “I should be able to reach the Fade simply by going to sleep.”

“You’ve been doing a lot of sleeping, shouldn’t you know if you can get to the Fade by now?” she questioned with a raised brow.

“Lapsing in and out of consciousness while being dragged through dingy city streets hardly constitutes real sleep,” Solas informed her with a slight scoff. “I must go deep into the realm of dreams to find what I am seeking; it will require several hours of unbroken rest.”

“Well, that…sounds really strange,” she admitted with a sigh, “but…I hope it works for you. I hope you find who you’re looking for in there.”

He gave her a long look, the expression in his eyes deep and drowning, stealing the breath from her lungs. Twisting something her chest to the point of pain. He shut his eyes tightly, inhaling sharply through his nose. His fingers dug into the blanket like a lifeline.

“Thank you,” he managed to reply in a strangled whisper.

“Well, um…the bathroom is this first door on your left, and the next one down along the same wall is my room, so…just let me know if you need anything,” she told him, pointing towards the doors in question. “Good night, Solas…and good luck.”

“Good night.”

* * *

 

She was always bringing him flowers.

Pressed into the pages of a book he was reading. Tucked into his buttonholes. Slipped quietly onto his desk while his back was turned. Held out to him with a shy smile as she twirled the tiny blossom between her fingertips.

Pansies and periwinkles and vinca. Buttercups and violets. Little sprigs of heather, lavender, and sage. Hundreds of daisies and clover blossoms knotted into chains and threaded through the loops of his travel pack, tossed over his head to make a necklace, and even woven into a frankly outlandish crown on one occasion.

He hummed in slightly amused complacency when he felt her step up behind him and settle the newly made coronet about his ears. He leaned back on the log where he had sat down to take a drink of water when they had paused for a few minutes at the side of the road. He craned his head back to look into her eyes. She was wearing crown of flowers not unlike his own, and her smile could have melted the snow from an entire ridge of mountains.

“Inquisitor,” he chided gently, not really opposed to her somewhat eccentric way of being affectionate, “are you certain this is the impression the Inquisition should be making on the locals?”

“We’re incognito,” she told him with a conspiratorial grin. She ducked down to press a kiss to the bridge of his nose before stepping over the log and sitting beside him.

“Ah. I see,” he replied, completely unable to stop the smile creeping up across his face. “And what exactly is our disguise?”

She took his hand in hers, threading their fingers together as she leaned her head on his shoulder. She heaved a weary sigh. For just a moment she allowed him to see past her usual exuberance, and she just looked…tired. Stretched thin.

“We’re two ordinary people who care for each other.”

* * *

 

Aili woke to the sound of screaming.

Half blind and mostly asleep, she tumbled out of her bed, snagging the pepper spray she had set out on her nightstand in case her guest got any funny ideas, and sprinted back out towards the living room.

The scene she encountered when she got there was her frazzled looking roommate still wearing her mint green waitress uniform and standing in the middle of the kitchenette brandishing a dirty frying pan and fumbling for the phone next to the refrigerator while Solas slumped over on the couch, gripping his head as though he’d been struck with something.

“Sulenera!” Aili called out in an attempt to halt her cousin. The last thing she needed was to try and explain to the cops why an ancient elf was sleeping in her living room; she was going to have a hard enough time talking her roommate down from braining him with cookware.

“Aili!” Sulenera replied, whipping around to stare at her in alarm, “There’s some drunk hobo sleeping on our couch!”

“He’s not drunk,” she insisted, glancing over at Solas, who appeared to still be in some sort of pain. “Did you actually whack him with that thing?”

“I tossed my purse in the general direction of the couch on the way to the bathroom, I guess it must have hit him in the head,” Sulenera shrugged, shooting an icy green glare at the interloper. Her grip tightened on the frying pan. “He sat up and started grumbling some drunken gibberish at me and I just about had a heart attack.”

“It was probably Elvhen,” Aili told her, though she doubted that piece of information would do much to soothe her cousin’s frayed nerves. “I’m sorry, I should have sent you a text letting you know he was here. It has been a really weird day, and I was so tired when I got home that I just passed out.”

Sulenera’s stance relaxed ever so slightly.

“Maker’s Breath, Aili,” she groused after a moment of silent deliberation, finally lowering her weapon. “You _would_ bring home a man who speaks some moldy old language no one’s heard in a few hundred years. Weren’t you just whining the other day about how you never have time to actually meet someone? Must not have been that good if you sent him off to the couch afterwards though … _please_ tell me you used protection.”

“ _Sulenera_ ,” Aili hissed in abject horror.

“Excuse me, but I think you have misunderstood-” Solas began, struggling to rise from the couch.

“You sit back down,” Sulenera  growled, jabbing the frying pan in his direction. “I haven’t made up my mind about you yet, and until I do, you’re going to stay over there where I can see you, got it?”

“…very well,” Solas sighed in defeat, sinking back down onto the cushions.

“Come on, Lethallan,” Aili wheedled, taking her cousin by the elbow, “It’s late. We’re all tired. Let’s just go to bed for now, and we can discuss this whole situation tomorrow morning over freshly made waffles and some nice hot chocolate.”

“Not coffee?” Sulenera asked, sounding surprised, though her resolve had clearly been weakened at the suggestion of waffles.

“Solas doesn’t like tea,” Aili said off handedly, “he thinks it’s too bitter. And if he can’t handle black tea, there is no way he would survive the way you brew coffee.”

Aili blinked, realizing what she had just said. She cast a confused glance over at Solas, but he did nothing except gaze back at her forlornly. Had he said anything to her about tea?

“You’ve known him long enough to know what he likes with his breakfast?” Sulenera accused incredulously, throwing her hands up. Aili only managed to escape being bludgeoned with the frying pan by the narrowest of margins. “When were you going to tell me about your weird bald boyfriend?”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Aili groaned. “I literally just met him this evening.”

“And you brought him home and offered to feed him?” her cousin asked with glowering disapproval. “Men are like cats, Aili. You pick one up off the street and give it food, and you’ll never be rid of it.”

“Look, can you please suspend offering me unnecessary relationship advice until the sun is up?” Aili complained, folding her arms across her chest. “I swear there is a perfectly logical explanation for all of this…which is going to sound completely crazy. And if it is all the same to you, I’d rather tackle it when we’ve all gotten a few hours’ sleep.”

“How crazy are we talking here?” Sulenera prodded, narrowing her eyes in suspicion.

“‘It happened hours ago and I’m still waiting to wake up and discover it was all a dream’ level crazy,” Aili sighed.

“Damn,” Sulenera noted, sounding impressed, both eyebrows rising in surprise. Her green eyes darted over to their impromptu guest and then back to her cousin. She put her hands on her hips and fixed her with what might have been the sternest ‘mom frown’ of the century. “If he stays here, you are doing the dishes for a month.”

“Ugh, that’s extortion!” Aili moaned.

“And you’re sleeping in my room tonight,” Sulenera continued relentlessly.

“But… No! You always listen to that weird screechy flute music when you go to sleep!” Aili protested.

“You brought a homeless man into our apartment,” Sulenera reminded her flatly, edging towards Solas and snatching her purse off the floor near the couch. She dug around in it until she pulled out her cell phone.

“Say ‘cheese’, Hobo Man,” she told him as she held up the phone and pressed a button. She turned the phone around and showed him his own morose expression captured on the tiny screen. “I’ve got your picture now; try anything funny and I’ll text this to the police faster than you can say ‘shady business.’”

“That is…extraordinary!” Solas exclaimed, still sounding tired, blinking at the little replica of his image in amazement. “Is it some sort of magic? It does not appear to be. Hm…how does it work?”

“Is he for real?” Sulenera barked in disbelief. “He’s more interested in the photo than the fact that I just threatened to hand him over to the cops?”

“Are ‘cops’ the same as the police?” Solas asked, looking to Aili for confirmation.

“They’re law enforcement, and yes, they are the same,” Aili told him with a weary sigh before turning back to her roommate. “Now that he has been sufficiently intimidated, can we please go to bed? I _swear_ , I will tell you everything in the morning.”

“You’d better,” Sulenera said, taking her by the hand and dragging her towards a door along the opposite wall from Aili’s room.

“Good night, Solas,” Aili called back to him over her shoulder, “I hope this didn’t ruin anything you were trying to do.”

“Sleep well,” Solas replied, his mouth twitching upwards into a wry smile. “Enjoy your flute music.”

She stuck her tongue out at him, and for the first time in centuries, Solas laughed.


End file.
